My Body of Truth

Pretty baby, you might say. But aren’t all babies pretty? (Okay, so maybe some are just cute… or interesting… ) When I look at this picture of myself (taken by Palmer Blair when I was three months old), I do see a pretty baby; but I also see a very round face. And that part has never changed in all these years! No chance of strong, defined cheekbones in this face. Yeah, maybe with the right makeup there could be a hint, but makeup is not one of my strong suits!

And so the issues of appearance begin. Obviously when I was three months old, I was not concerned about my cheekbones or my baby fat. But most people, particularly women, are far too concerned about how they look and, more importantly, how others see them. For most of our lives. Whether we admit it or not.

I am 66 years old. Why am I writing about this now? Well, for one thing, I have spent an inordinate amount of time lately looking for a dress for my son’s wedding. I am a very minor player in this event (well, without me, he wouldn’t be here, of course, but you know what I mean!) and truthfully people are not really going to be looking at me. But the point is that it shouldn’t matter if they are. Because I should be old and wise enough not to care what they think. Within reason of course! Surely there is nothing I would consider wearing that would elicit gasps of horror. It’s the whispers I worry about.

My body. My truth.

So here I am, on the left, at age one. I’d like to think I was walking away from the cake, but that’s not likely! Probably just looking for a plate. And on the right, I am turning eleven and looking at my cake. If you asked me at any point in the past to describe myself at age 11, I would undoubtedly include the word “chubby” along with short (although a relative term, it is also indisputable!) and there would be some mention of the very curly hair, which was much longer than it appears in the photo because of the curl. But tell me: does the little girl in the picture appear “chubby’ to you? Not really. But that is how I saw myself. And not without reason. (And to be honest, I really cannot believe this is me!)

My PapPaw Dixon was, in my opinion and that of many others, a wonderful man! He and my grandmother reared several of his siblings after the passing of both his parents (his father before the youngest child was born and his mother four years later) along with four biological children and another little girl they adopted well into their forties. He was   a magistrate, a clock repairman, a fisherman extraordinaire, and a great grandfather! He loved me dearly ( I am sure I was the favorite grandchild, but I imagine that my cousins and siblings all think they were! We won’t spoil it for them.) But I recall two things about him to this day. He often compared to the comic strip character Little Lulu or Nancy, at the moment I’m not sure which, but they both are described as sassy and spunky, things like that, which are good traits, but he was thinking more of their extremely curly hair and the “chubbiness.” I’d like to think he meant it as a compliment to my intelligence and wit and “smarts,” but I knew even then he didn’t. And another time, he asked me, “How much DO you weigh?” and my response was “too much!” And I walked away. This was probably about the same time the picture above was taken. And I was humiliated and embarrassed, by a man whom I adored. And who I knew adored me. And yet my appearance was not good enough.

My body. My truth.

Many years later, I was complaining to my Daddy (whom I also adored, and who I also know loved me completely) about how my mother-in-law had said something about how tall my sister was (in comparison to me). Let’s point out first of all that said MIL was not exactly breaking any height records herself. And yes, as children, my sister was always taller by virtue of having been born more than three years before I was. That ‘s the way it works. By the time we had both stopped growing, she was still taller but only by an inch or so. Not exactly statistically significant. But Daddy’s response when I was seeking support because MIL thought Linda was so tall? “Maybe it’s because she is so slender.” I didn’t respond, as I recall, but I was “cut to the quick” (using one of my Mother’s phrases). If even Daddy thought I was overweight, then…..

My body. My truth.

I grew up with a mother who was a wonderful cook and, especially, a baker! That love for baking is something I “inherited” from her. I also like to cook healthy meals, so all is not lost. And I am glad that I enjoy food. I am definitely not one of those people who “eat to live.” But this whole story is not about eating or overeating or dieting or anything of the sort. It is about body image. Mine. Yours. Everyone’s. It’s about how we see ourselves. Or maybe more importantly about not caring about how others see us.

People look at this little five-year-old and think “what a cute little girl.” At least I think they do. But I look at it, and the first thing I notice is the skirt riding up in front. (Okay, the dark socks –either red or navy blue, I suspect– are a close second!) And you know what’s scary? Just now I looked at the picture again, and I noticed a little bit of sag in my right knee. There’s more than a little bit of sag in both knees now…. See? It continues.

I’ve been looking through old pictures a lot lately, and this one is probably what started this post forming in my mind. There is no date on the back (there’s a lot of that here!), but I was in my early twenties. (If I was <21, the lovely bandana was covering the frizz that my hair inevitably became when it hit the beach air!)

What I do know is that when I look at this picture now, I do not see fat or chubby or overweight or even out-of-shape. But I also know what was in my mind when the picture was taken. I am surprised that I even let someone snap the shot!

And while we are talking about appearances… these days we know all about SPF and sunscreen, but that shine on my body? Probably not sweat, but baby oil. Maybe even mixed with iodine, to promote tanning. And that little black spot on the towel beside me? Tiny little glasses to protect my eyes (at least we did that) while I basked in the sun for hours on end. Did I enjoy that? Not really. But in the 1970s, a tan was important.

My body. My truth.

This isn’t about vanity. If you have followed me on Facebook at all, you know that I will put on all kinds of costumes. (Sometimes, yes, I have even involved others in this activity!)

I don’t hate my body. It has served me well. It allowed me to have three healthy babies. Okay, so maybe the whole birthing process thing didn’t exactly go as planned and C-sections were involved, but still it is an amazing thing.

Here I am in the early months of the first pregnancy and a few days after the end of the third. And after birthing those babies, I was able to feed them for months afterwards with this body. And you know what? During those three pregnancies, I didn’t worry too much about my weight except for hoping I had gained enough at each check up to make the doctor happy. This body, at its maximum height and at various weights, did its job and did it well.

I have walked 39.3 miles in two days for breast cancer research on seven different weekends. I have walked back-to-back 10K and half-marathons in Ocracoke. I have climbed the highest peak in the Alps on the Grand Slalom World Tour (or something like that). I have taught a gazillion students, one of whom actually told me– yes, out loud in front of her class!– that my “calves are massive”! I have friends who love me no matter what I look like. I have raised three amazing children, all of whom are grateful to have grown taller than their mother!

Appearance is not just about body size and shape. Hair “matters,” if indeed any of it matters. I choose– adamantly– to let mine go gray, which it is doing surprisingly slowly. I lost all that curl about the time stick-straight hair went out of favor. I unashamedly get my hair cut at a low-price establishment; I wash it in the shower and spend approximately 15 seconds drying and “styling” it.  And yet, I don’t really worry too much about hair.

Nails? Well, I long, long ago stopped biting them. I try to keep them fairly uniform in length, but I rarely polish them. And I have never had a mani/pedi. Also, not of much concern.

There are no pictures here of adult me. (Other than the costumed ones.) Not from a couple of years ago when lots of people were saying I was too thin. (What? That’s a new thing!) Not from a couple of years before that, when I was heavier. And not from now, somewhere in-between. Because that is not the point.

Is the battle won? No. Do I still agonize over that dress for the upcoming wedding? Yes. Do I care what other people think? Yes. But maybe not as much, now that I have looked back at some of these pictures. I’m not asking for compliments. I’m exposing my insecurities, my self-doubt, my lifelong feeling of not looking like I think I should look. And I am saying that as I go through my closet and drawers, trying to consolidate the wardrobe, I will keep things in a variety of sizes because I know that this body is not always going to be one size. But it is always going to be the right size.

My body. My truth.